Strong Enough
by Maple Fay
Summary: HM, starting on the night after "The Kids". A moment shared in a post-op changes some things -- but whether it's for better or of worse is still to be judged...
1. Chapter 1

**Strong enough**

**Disclaimer:** Don't own anyone, or anything, you recognize. 'm just fooling around, no harm meant ;)

**A/N:** My first MASH piece, originally meant as a oneshot, but I'm thinking of developing it into something bigger – let me know what you think of it, and enjoy! :)

Sticky, shaky hands, fumbling with the buttons of her shirt, and failing miserably. Heavy, rotting smell from his mouth. Hot sweat on his skin, making her feel sick.

"Stop it," muffled at first by his arm.

"Oh, Margaret—"

"I _said_, stop it, Frank!" Pushing him away, she sat up, back straight, checking her hair with one hand, adjusting the uniform shirt with the other. He snorted, irritated, behind her back. "I think I should get back to work."

"Now?! Margaret, it's way past midnight!"

"You might not be on the nightshift, Frank, but_ I_ am," she snapped, pinning her hair up into a tight bun. "I'm off. Please close the door behind you, as soon as possible."

"Margaret—"

Snorting, she went out of the tent into the cold, quiet night of the medical camp. Shivering slightly, she puts her hands in her pockets and shook her head as she made her way towards to PO. Frank was a good man, yes, believing wholeheartedly in discipline and order, respecting the army she cared she so much – but sometimes it just wasn't enough. Oh, yes, he did like her body and enjoyed her company, but she was quite sure his approach towards her was nothing more than… materialistic. Let's face it – Frank Burns' sleeping with her was for pure convenience.

Which wasn't _exactly_ the reason she'd want to sleep with somebody for, not to mention forming a long-term relationship with him.

Margaret entered the PO and yawned. Nightshift or not, she was sleepy after a hard day's work, and still a bit shaken by her reaction on Frank's attempts to make out with her. Dizzy. Irritated.

And yet, surprisingly, she also felt unusually… excited. Frank's unsuccessful actions couldn't have been the reason; during his ministrations she didn't feel anything at all. And yet, somewhere deep under her skin there was an itch she couldn't scratch.

Maybe she was just feeling lonely.

To hell with that, she thought, checking the vitals of a young Corporal. I'm tired of this war, tired of being a better man than 90 percent of males I'm stuck with in here…

"Evening, Major. Tough night?" a low, husky baritone of a male being the most prominent member of the ten-percent group sounded close to her ear. She turned, and looked her colleague in the laughing, cunning eye.

"I didn't know you had a nightshift today."

"Lost it in poker with BJ."

"Too bad."

He eyed her, furrowing a brow, and closed his patients' data file. "Already checked on those pals, all recovering pretty well. Care to grab some coffee before the next checkup?"

"What about paperwork?"

"We can work it out in the meantime," he assured her, winking and opening the office door. "C'mon, what do you say, Major Baby?"

She couldn't help but smile, seeing his naughty boy look from head to toe, except for the stethoscope hanging from his neck. "You're insufferable, Hawkeye."

"Ahh, but that's exactly why you adore me, Mags. Let me fix you a drink. No alcohol will be involved this time, I promise."

She entered the small, dimly lit office and closed the door firmly behind her. Hawkeye has already busied himself with filling the coffeepot with cold water and putting it on an electric cooker. Margaret sat in a chair next to the coughing heater and shivered: she forgot to take her jacket, too anxious to be out of the tent, and the night was chilly even for an October in Korea. Hawkeye gave her a concerned look and stripped of his, gently tugging it around her shoulders.

"Take this, gorgeous, I'm always hot, as you probably know already," he joked, briefly hugging her shoulders.

"You're going to get cold," she pointed out, grateful as she was. Hawkeye's jacket smelled of gin, cigar smoke from the canteen, his aftershave, spicy and rich, and something else – a male scent, that made her feel strangely comfortable.

Not that the excitement was gone. Oh no, no chance for that.

"What's the lady's fancy tonight?" her companion asked, looking for something with his head buried deep in the fridge. "Nice and sweet, or strong and groovy?"

"Get off it, Hawkeye; all we have is a broken coffee machine, and—" he waved a dark, unlabeled bottle in front of her nose "—maple syrup? How…?"

Hawkeye beamed, adding a few drops of the liquid to their respective mugs. "A special treat for my home doctor, dear Maddie Sloane," he said, gazing off dreamily into space. Margaret averted her eyes as she felt an unfamiliar sting of something, deep in her breast: was it by any chance jealousy? But how? Why? For _him_, of all people?

"Your friend from med school?" she asked, trying to keep her voice casual, without the trace of hurt that kept on pushing in. Hawkeye kept a steady gaze on her face, waiting for the coffee to boil.

"Best in our year," he answered with a nostalgic smile. "Beautiful, too. Married Jack Hunt, an internist. Envied him like hell, but got over it quite soon. After all, she was a bit harsh, and stubborn like an ass – and I liked my women sweet and easygoing… those days."

Margaret shivered slightly and looked Hawkeye in the eye, trying to figure out the intentions hidden in his last sentence. Hawkeye inhaled deeply, apparently wanting to say something more, but the smell of burning coffee caused him to break their eye contact and pour brown, hot liquid into the mugs. As he circled the table to pass Margaret hers, she noticed goosebumps forming on his bare forearms.

"You're freezing!" she exclaimed, and patted the seat of a chair next to her. "Here," slid the jacket down from one shoulder, she encouraged him to share it. Shaking his head in amazement, Hawkeye moved his chair closer and sat down, pulling the offered clothing towards him, and encircling Margaret's waist with his right arm. Margaret fell back, feeling her body make contact with Hawkeye's broad chest. She felt his tickling breath near her left ear, and hoped she didn't blush. Too much.

Taking a long sip from his mug, Hawkeye encouraged her with a gentle pressure applied on her elbow to try hers. It was sweet and strong, like the man who made it, Margaret thought and shivered at the idea. Hawkeye stifled a yawn, gently rubbing her arm. "Still cold?"

"No, not at all. The coffee is great, by the way."

"Happy to hear that." Another yawn. "Geez, sorry for that, Major. Your presence is more than invigorating, but last night was quite… intense, as you can probably recall." Thus having spoken, he rested his forehead against the back of her head. Margaret froze for a second, but as Hawkeye didn't attempt to further deepen their contact, she, too, began to relax in his embrace. Images of the previous night – the orphans, the wounded, the shot woman giving birth – flooded her mind.

"It was a very nice thing to do, giving the Heart to the newborn," she said in a soft, quiet voice, covering his hand with hers. She felt him shake his head gently, and heard his muffled laughter.

"I'm glad you approve." A beat. "Thought you might not."

"Why wouldn't I…" she paused. "Because of its not-so-worthy first owner?"

"I'd say so. After all, you two do share… some stuff."

She sighed, and ran a hand through her hair, accidentally touching his cheek and stopping it there for a moment. "I'm not sure there's anything left to share. It's like I'm giving him more and more, getting nothing back. And at nights like this, when I need somebody to hold me, I'm—"

"Don't say that," he interrupted, calm but definite, hugging her closer and placing his chin in the crook of her neck. "You're not alone, Margaret. Not when I'm around – though I do believe you'd rather not see me for most of the time—"

"Oh, don't say that," she smiled and reached out to touch his face again, rubbing her finger pads against hot, harsh skin. "I like having you around, Hawkeye. I liked the way you handled the children. I admire your surgeon skills. Working with you is a great challenge. I'm glad to have met you."

"Whoa, we're getting sentimental here," he chuckled as he stood up to refill their mugs. "You're blushing, Margaret. Warmer now?"

"Yes, thank you. Shall we move onto work?" she asked, desperate to cover her emotional side that took over her for a couple of minutes. Hawkeye waved his hand dismissively.

"Nah, Margaret, relax." He resumed his former position, wrapping his arm loosely around her waist. "I have something to tell you, too." Turning her towards him, he looked her deep in the eye and smiled. "You're a helluva woman, Major. Strong, confident and more beautiful than any woman I've met here, and most of those I used to know back home. But you're also far more sensitive than one could imagine, and that's why you need a strong arm to support you. A man who chooses to be with you has to have some balls. You are a challenge, too, Margaret, and in my opinion, if you care to hear it, you need a man stronger than Frank Burns to hold you."

She swallowed hard and blinked, avoiding his gaze. The soft-spoken words broke down some barriers inside her, keeping all the emotions and fears in check. Hawkeye placed one hand on her shoulder, the other under her chin, forcing her to look at him. "Don't cry, Margaret. I didn't want to hurt you, I'm sorry…"

"No, you haven't – I mean – you're right, Hawkeye, and it scares me."

He hugged her again, burying her face in his shoulder, and rocked her gently against himself until her breathing calmed down. But as he pulled away from her again, to say something more, maybe throw in a joke to relieve the tension, he saw the faraway look in her eyes that she used to get when she so ashamed of letting her guard down and allowing her emotions to control her. Just then a patient called out from the post-op, and Margaret stood up, happy to have an excuse to leave. Why on Earth did Hawkeye have such an influence on her?! That was so… unlike her, to let another person into the intimacy of her thoughts. Troubled by the outcome of the evening, Margaret cleared her throat pointedly.

"Well, Captain," she spoke, painfully aware of how hoarse and shaken her voice sounded, "thank you for the coffee." For a moment she thought she caught a glint of disappointment in his eyes, but they changed to cold and ironic so fast she was no longer sure.

"Anytime, Major," he answered curtly, and cleaned the mugs off the table. Margaret made an attempt to shrug his jacket off herself, but he stopped her with a quick gesture. "Keep it. I'll be off in an hour or so, and you could positively freeze in here. You can give it back when you get your own."

"Thank you," she replied ant went into the PO to help out the calling man. As she turned around a couple of minutes later, she saw Hawkeye in the small office window: he was catching up with his papers, facing away from the door. Margaret had a fleeting feeling of something being taken away from her, but since she couldn't work out what it was, she decided to go back to work.

At least she was on safe ground here.

TBC?...

**A/N:** That's it! Let me know if you liked it!


	2. Chapter 2

**A/N:** Thanks for all the reviews! I'm thrilled somebody likes my newest baby bounces Anyway, the day after tomorrow I'm going abroad for two weeks, and I honestly didn't think I'll be updating before that, but since my previous activities have been cancelled (as in: I'm not making any money with my camera today), I decided to sort out some stuff I had in mind… This is a sort of an interlude before the real action begins, but I hope it'll show you where approximately I'm heading with this thing. Please R&R! :)

Still own nothing. My bad.

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"Major, _please_!"

She jumps up at Potter's angry voice, and hands him the tool he'd asked for three times already. "I'm sorry, Colonel."

"Are you alright, Margaret? Maybe you should take a break from this one?"

"Thank you, sir, I feel perfectly well," she replies stiffly, and lowers her gaze on the patient's pale face. They all look so calm and relaxed while we perform on them, she thinks, and the thought sickens her just a bit. She is afraid to raise her eyes, for she knows he'd surely be watching her from his end of the OR, like he used to do since the night they spent in the office, almost a month ago. He quit the jokes, the juicy comments he'd been dropping here and there at all times, he hardly ever talks to her nowadays – but he looks at her, coldly observes her every move whenever he can spare a fraction of a second. She cannot see his face under the mask, but his eyes, darkening as he lays them on her, are more than enough.

She wonders whether she'd played it wrong, that night at the post-op. She did what she used to do whenever somebody threatened to break her carefully knitted composure, but it felt different, alienating, cold. She needed him to know why she walked away like that, but couldn't bring herself to talk to him. Eventually their mutual acknowledgement was reduced to those stolen glances: in the OR, the mess tent, or whenever she was leaving the showers, her hair and skin still wet, and he waited for his turn outside, leaning against the walls and looking at the sky. She saw it reflected in his eyes at times like that.

And felt herself weaken, bit by bit.

"Clamp."

She hands it over swiftly, and wipes some perspiration off Potter's forehead. A glance across the room – he's not looking at her, too busy with the arterial transplant he's been doing for three hours now. She's sorry for him, mad at Able for not wiping _his_ sweat off, but she cannot just wander off from her work and go to him to offer… what, exactly? Comfort? Reassurance? Respect?

He'd laugh hard at it, she knows it for sure.

"I'll be closing now, Margaret. You go get some rest."

She sighs, her back sore from standing by the operation table for past seven hours. "Is this the last one, sir?"

"I do hope so. How are you doing, boys?"

"Be right off." BJ, his voice calm, with but a hint of tiredness.

"Stupendous." Oh God, Frank makes her nauseous whenever she so much as hears his voice. They're no longer sleeping together, it somehow died out after the night when is ministrations sickened her so that she had to go and… Bad sign; she shouldn't be thinking about it now. Anyway, he's openly into Nurse Kelley now, and she wishes them luck. _She_'s going to need it, Margaret could bet on it.

"I should be done in an hour."

_An hour?!_

"Something wrong, Hawkeye?"

"This one's pretty battered, Colonel. I'm doing my best to save his leg, but this time I might be forced to give up."

The sound of his voice, hopeless and spent, is the excuse she's been looking for. She takes a couple of long, swift steps, and stands by his side, pushing Nurse Able gently away as she pulls on a fresh pair of gloves.

"Where's your problem?"

"Here," he shows her the particularly ugly area, and hands her over the clamp. "Will you hold this for me?"

"Is that all, Doctor?" she says, mocking him a little, but she's terrified of the wound: she's never seen an arterial crushed as badly as this one. He chuckles, and shakes his head. "Always up for a challenge, aren't you, Hot Lips?"

The word 'challenge' takes her back to their nighttime conversation, and she wonders if he remembers. He has to, she decides, but doesn't take the bait. They work in complete silence; he doesn't even have to ask for respective tools, she knows the drill – and his way of work – by heart. She wipes off his forehead, and for a moment she thinks he leaned into her hand, looking for comfort, but the feeling was too short and fleeting to be sure. Besides, it's not important now they're actually _doing it_, they're saving the boy's leg, she can tell by the way Hawkeye finally gathers all the broken arterial endings and closes them up. The others have already left, and the room is awfully quiet, but Margaret no longer cares. They played against Death, and once again they've won.

Obviously Hawkeye feels this way, too, for he stops her at the door, the patient being transported to the post-op. "Thank you, Major," he says, his face serious and sincere. Lightening up a bit, "This calls for a celebration. Join me for a drink?"

She looks around the dark camp: almost everybody is asleep, and she can tell she's too tired to try it herself. Not wanting to toss and turn on her cot forever, and needing the booze to numb her, she accepts his invitation, and doesn't protest as he slips his arm casually around her waist, guiding her towards the officers' club.

Klinger's at the bar, polishing some glasses; he smiles at them and pulls out a bottle of scotch before either of them has a chance to say anything. "Great job, Doctor Pierce."

"Couldn't have done it without my lovely assistant."

"This one's on the house, Doc. If you need anything else, help yourself: my shift's been over for a couple of minutes, but I figured you'd like to see a friendly face in here when you're done."

"Thanks, Max. Sleep well."

"'Night, Ma'm. 'Night, Hawkeye."

Before he leaves, he puts a record on. Sweet sounds of jazz fill the room, and Margaret is suddenly painfully aware of this moment, and the fact that, despite the lazy, comfortable feeling she's having right now, in another couple of hours she might be standing in an OR again, covered in blood up to her elbows, and forcing herself not to look at the man currently sitting on a bar stool next to her. She moves her sore body gently to match the swinging rhythm, and melancholically pretends to play a non-existent piano on the edge of the bar. Hawkeye looks at her for a while, smiling just so, sipping from his own glass, and finally he gets up and pulls her to her feet. As he closes his arms around her, she tries to remember whether they'd ever danced together, and cannot remember.

"God you're tensed," he murmurs and turns her around in his embrace, one hand keeping hold around her middle, the other gently massaging her nape and shoulders. His touch is healing; she tells him so and is rewarded with a warm chuckle against her hair.

"Why, thank you, milady. Glad to be of service."

He turns her around again, and they dance for a while, before finally they're both too tired to pretend otherwise. "Guess it's time to close the place for the night," he says and puts the half-empty bottle behind the bar. She washes up the glasses: Klinger's been nice enough to wait up for them, they shouldn't be troubling him more than necessary. Hawkeye walks over to the recorder, so she turns the light off, but the music doesn't stop. For a moment she hears nothing but the soft sounds of a piano, and then, all of a sudden, she's aware that he's standing right next to her.

He reaches out and touches her arm, pulling her towards himself, hugging her like he did last month. Her hands slid up his back, fingers entwining with his hair, and she feels him shiver, his shoulders shaking as he cries against her.

"It's over now," she whispers, and touches her nose to the crook of his neck. "It's all over."

"It's going to start again tomorrow, or the day after," he replies, and tightens his embrace. It's utterly dark, and she almost cannot hear the record now, enveloped in the sound of his heartbeat and shaky breath.

"And we'll see it through till the end," she answers, though she wasn't so sure of it a while ago. He shakes his head, and releases her, still holding her by the elbows, laughing gently in the darkness.

"You're impossibly invincible, Hot Lips. They should've made you a General, so that we didn't have to come here, ever. You would've taken the commies out in a month."

"But then you wouldn't have met me, and stayed miserable till the end of your days."

He chuckles at her comment that is so _him_. Ironic, but they both enjoy a temporary change. "Touché, Major. Shall I escort you to your tent?"

"Yes, please. I'll turn off the music."

Somehow she manages to get to the recorder and remove the needle, but on her way back she bumps her thigh onto a table. She hisses, and hears Hawkeye's clothes rustle as he comes to examine her. He touches the hurting place, covering her hand with his, and catches his breath. She raises her head, not understanding what got into him, and accidentally brushes her lips against his chin. He jumps up, and hastily pulls her out of the club, breathing heavily.

She still doesn't understand.

He takes her back to his tent, and runs his fingers over the knuckles of her hand he's been unwarily holding. "Goodnight, Margaret," he says, and looks her straight in the eye. "I'm still trying to figure it all out, you know."

She shakes her head, squeezing his fingers. "What, Hawkeye?"

He smiles, and suddenly leans in to place a featherlike kiss just under her lips. "Whether I'm strong enough for it. I don't want to hurt you, Major Baby."

She nods, her heart pounding, absentmindedly touching her fingers to the place he'd kissed. "I—I see." Is there anything else she could possibly say on a moment like this? She's too afraid to risk.

He says 'Goodnight' again and walks away, turning around every three, four steps and looking at her, still leaning against the door of her tent. When he finally enters the Swamp and closes the door behind him, she's sure things are going to change.

Whether they'll change for better is still a matter of time.


	3. Chapter 3

**A/N:** Six hours of sleep is NOT ENOUGH. But then, I can't make myself stop: this story seems to have a life of its own. Somebody please come around and help me pack…?

Anyway, this is the third installment, which I hope you like. I'm not sure how many chapters are going to be there, but the story doesn't want to end too fast. Sigh. When am I going to get my life back?! ;)

Please enjoy.

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"…but Colonel—"

"That's _enough_, Pierce! Is this really that hard to comprehend? I want Margaret's help at the aid station, but I cannot spare you! This place is likely to turn into a slaughterhouse during the next forty-eight hours."

Hawkeye sighed and rolled his eyes at the marble-like face of Sherman Potter. "I get it, I get it. I just can't stand the thought of her doing down there with that—"

"Watch your tongue, son."

"Sorry, sir. Guess I'm gonna go and break the news to our Chief Nurse, shall I?"

"Please do. If you're lucky you might even succeed in… restraining… her."

Hawkeye eyed his CO suspiciously, but the Colonel returned his gaze with utter openness and innocence. Shaking his head, he exited his office and turned towards Margaret's tent. He wondered whether the pause indicated that Potter's noticed something has been going on between Margaret and himself. Things have been quite different since the night when he almost made a serious confession to her. They haven't been officially dating, but they were taking their meals together, always accompanied by others but visibly closer than before, fighting the afterward nausea in each other's company, meeting at the operating table more often; Hawkeye had even made Margaret play poker with 'them guys', though she lost so much she quit after a week or so.

They were comfortable around each other, embracing casually on informal occasions, selling each other small pranks that required physical contact, or even fixing the other's looks when necessary. Hawkeye smiled to himself at the memory of the first time when he caught up with Margaret in front of the OR and adjusted her hair, messed up by long hours of wearing a cap. Half of the camp, including most of the nurses, seemed to have a simultaneous heart attack.

Their bad, Hawkeye concluded, tapping on Margaret's door. He has become a frequent guest to her tent, but never stayed the night, and made sure people saw, from time to time, as he came and went – for their relationship was, for some reasons, strictly platonic.

He couldn't say he didn't want her. The way she'd pin her hair up preparing for the night in officer's club while he watched, could make him crazy with lust, and bring at least two sleepless nights, during which he'd remember the gentle curves of her body. Yes, it was official: he had fallen head over heels for Margaret Houlihan. Despite this fact, he decided to take things slowly, allowing her to fit into the new scheme they put on. It required some sacrifices, but these were simple things.

Fitting three cold showers and an hour of jogging into his daily routine turned out to be a nice start.

The doors opened, revealing Margaret in a robe, rubbing her wet hair with a towel. "Come in," she said, and let him inside. He took a moment to pause in the doorway and inhale her shampoo.

"Something new?"

"A Japanese invention, containing camellia extracts. I got it sent from Tokyo this morning."

"By whom, if I may ask?" She laughed at his displeased expression, and patted his arm reassuringly.

"A friend I've met during the last Nurses Conference. Her name's Betsy and she happens to work in the HQ. Happy now, Mr. Jealous?"

"Who's jealous? I'm not jealous!"

"Denial doesn't work on me, buster," she reminded him. "Did you have anything to tell me, or were you just hoping for a quick peek at me changing my clothes?"

He gave her a 'you got me there' look. He really enjoyed the new Margaret, funny and relaxed, being nothing like 'Hot Lips' or 'Major Houlihan' figures. "Both, I guess. I talked to the Colonel about your visit to the aid."

"And?" she asked impatiently, folding her hands in an attempt to regain composure.

He shook his head and sighed. "He insists on your going with Frank. Says he cannot spare me. You know, I might actually stop liking him for that."

Margaret groaned and sat heavily on her cot, still tangling and disentangling her hands. Hawkeye came to sit next to her, and took a hold of her wrists.

"Watch it, I don't want to put those pretty fingers into a plaster." He rubbed his thumbs against her skin, not looking her in the eye. "This will only be a quick visit. Twenty-four hours and you'll be back. Here. With me."

She slipped her hands away from his grip and embraced herself. "I'm not going anywhere with him." He nodded, understanding her motives all too well. Frank, who seemed to be more than satisfied with courting Nurse Kelley as long as Margaret had no obvious relationships, started making stupid, offensive remarks as soon as he realized her acquaintance with Hawkeye might be taking a different turn. He restrained himself with Potter around, but while they'd be gone he would most likely go wild with jealousy, or whatever it was that he was feeling. Hawkeye hated the idea of letting him close to Margaret, but he couldn't do a thing about it.

"Hey, come on, you're better than this," he said now, nudging her shoulder playfully. "You're a pro, remember? You can't let one lousy Ferret get you."

She shook her head and got up, hiding behind the closet door and changing from her robe into a uniform. Hawkeye looked at his lap with immense interest, trying hard not to think about the way the fabric would slide against her – Oh crap, face it, he was getting nowhere with it.

"I think I should leave now, Margaret," he managed to say before jumping frantically to his feet. Fortunately, she was done with it, and stood before him with her still wet hair tied into a top-knot, her expression serious.

"I think this would serve us just fine," she said, avoiding his eyes. "We've been spending so much time together lately, I don't exactly remember what it was like… you know, _without_ you."

He raised his eyebrows. "And that's a bad thing?"

"Yes, it is," she replied firmly, "because we both have no idea where this is heading. Maybe something is going to change when I'm back."

"Change, how?" he asked, suddenly irritated, the sexual tension he's been feeling kicking in painfully. "You're going to realize Frank's your ultimate soulmate, or what?"

She looked up at him, surprised by the sudden burst, and blushed. "I didn't say that."

Hawkeye tried desperately to calm down, seeing her point, but his whole body was humming with an unfilled need to touch her, to devour her, to _have_ her completely, just for himself. The very idea of her turning away from him was killing him.

"I'm sorry," he mumbled, combing his fingers through his hair. "Think I'm getting too old for this."

She chuckled, and slowly put her hands on his shoulders. "You're not old." Tiptoeing, she kissed him playfully on the jaw, and inhaled sharply at the look in his eyes. "Let me go, just this once. I'll be back in no time, and we can go back to this conversation to finally draw out some…" her hands slid down across his chest, fingers playing with his dog tags, "…conclusions."

He sighed and pulled her close. "You're making me crazy, you know that?"

She smiled against his shirt. "The feeling's mutual."

"Then why don't we just skip this crap and head straight for the sweetness of it?"

She pulled away, locking his face in her hands. "Are you sure about this?"

Looking down at her eyes, pupils dilated with the same urge that's been eating him for the last couple of weeks, he realized that he wasn't. After all, this was him, and that was Margaret, two completely different individuals who happened to be pulled towards each other by some mysterious forces. What if it didn't work out? What if he hurt her, acting on his own whim? There were too many questions that required answering. He knew that he cared for her, wanted her, but he needed to be sure before they both dived headlong into it.

It was a serious matter, and he wanted to treat it as such.

Sighing, he stepped away from her embrace, holding her hands in his. "No, I'm not. It never happened to me before, and I can't say I like the feeling of it, but – I want to make it right."

"So do I," she assured him, and smiled. "At least I'll have something to think about when I'm off with that caricature of a man."

"Be sure not to call me name in your sleep."

"I'll remember that."

He looked down at her, smiling, the tension temporarily gone, enjoying the way light played with her hair and complimented her skin tone. "Promise to call me?"

"As soon as I get there. Now get the hell out of here, I need to pack."

"Right'o, Ma'am." He turned around and headed for the door, but just as he reached for the knob something went through him. He went back to her, getting a hold of her shoulders and kissing her firmly on the lips. It was a reassuring, warm kiss, promising others to come in quite a different fashion.

She sighed against his lips before finally pulling away, her expression dazed, eyes foggy. "Get out, or I'll never let you," she whispered, resting her forehead against his cheek. He kissed her hair and pulled away, his body aching for the lost contact, but his heart calmer than ever.

"I think I know where I _want_ this to head," he said, opening the door and taking one last look at her. "I'll be waiting, Major."

"I'll come back as soon as I can, Captain."

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"Why haven't they called yet?" Hawkeye grumbled six hours later, his feet propped up on a stool in Potter's office. The Colonel shrugged, apparently not too happy himself.

"Maybe there's a crisis out there, and they went straight to work?"

"Could be. Still, I asked her to call me, and she'd never—"

"Colonel Potter, sir," Radar rushed in through the door, pale and uneasy. "We have a Sergeant Thompson from the aid station online."

"Thanks, Radar," Potter nodded and took up the receiver. "Potter here. Hello, Sergeant, how are my people doing up there?" He listened for a couple of seconds, his face becoming paler and paler, as if all blood was being drenched from it.

"What do you mean, '_they never got there_'?!"

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**A/N: **Ahh, cliffhangers! Who doesn't like them? (Personally, I HATE them, but, well…) Stay tuned for our next chapter!


	4. Chapter 4

I'm baack! Did you miss me? ;) Even if you didn't, here I am again, bringing you yet another chapter: it was mainly written while travelling by various trains and buses, so please don't pay attention to any undeliberate slips ;)

As always, I own nothing. No, wait, I bought myself a Hugh Laurie book… Yep, I own nothing :)

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"If you cross this room one more time, I'm going to put you under house arrest!"

Hawkeye winced at Potter's voice, and obediently sat down in the last empty chair, between BJ and Father Mulcahy. He couldn't understand why Potter got so irritated. After all, he'd only started pacing an hour – well, maybe two – ago.

It's been thirteen hours since Margaret and Frank left for the aid station, and still not a word on their condition, even though Potter had informed the Intelligence (a highly unsuitable name for such a lousy organization, Hawkeye thought yet again) about their possible ill fate right after he received that highly unsettling phone call. Sure, they said they were doing _everything they could_, but after a couple of hours of unproductive waiting the Chief Surgeon had had enough. He refused to eat and/or sleep, but simply drank a gallon of coffee and operated on three wounded in the meantime. Still no information.

Just the silence. Deafening, cold, sickening silence.

When the phone finally rang some minutes later, Hawkeye felt his muscles clench, his stomach turn over, dark spots flying in front of his eyes. He saw everything in slow motion: BJ jumping to his feet, Potter reaching for the receiver, shouting his name and listening intently to the person on the other end.

Hawkeye began to count the seconds. _One. Two. Three…_

"Thank you, Sergeant. I will consult my staff and let you know as soon as we've decided on the case." He hung up, and looked at his Chief Surgeon with fatigue-rimmed eyes.

…_twenty seven._

"They found them." His voice was grave, tired, monotonous. "Apparently Frank lost control of the jeep when a shell exploded by of side of the road. They fell down the cliff, fifty, maybe sixty feet."

The silence rang in their ears as he paused and took off his glasses, fingers clasping the bridge of his nose. Hawkeye couldn't move, oblivious to anything but the Colonel's words.

"Frank has a couple of broken ribs and a nasty leg fracture. He asked for a permission to be treated in a military hospital in Tokyo, and I'm granting him this wish. As for Margaret…"

Another pause. Hawkeye could swear his heart exploded.

"She had a head injury. After receiving the treatment and the station she regained consciousness, and they asked her some standard questions: the date, her name, everything from the procedure. She remembered everything – apart from her own name, and the relationships binding her with other people."

BJ frowned. "Is that even possible? I thought amnesia was supposed to be—"

"The doctor said they've been observing the very same thing happening to some boys brought back from the battlefield. As a result of a physical shock, getting wounded and so on, they'd temporarily lose their emotional identity, as in: forget everything that was primarily connected to their social position, or the relations with other people. The state of such an amnesia may continue for a couple of days, weeks maybe, but after a throughout therapy the patient rebuilds their psyche." A pause. "They suggest sending Margaret to Tokyo with Frank would be the best possible option, considering that, I quote, her treatment here would require somebody's constant presence by her side, loads of patience and devotion to the patient, and a mental strength to answer all her questions, end quote. The results may be very insignificant at first, but one cannot be discouraged by them – that's why he suggested a specialist's help."

Potter got up and walked over to Hawkeye, putting a hard, heavy hand on his shoulder. "Will you do it?"

The young surgeon exhaled, as if relieved from an awful pressure. "I thought you'll never ask."

"Good. I'm sending a chopper out to get her," he shot a glance towards where Radar's been standing, and smiled in satisfaction at the sight of the doors swinging after the Corporal, already on his way to the bay. Turning to BJ and Mulcahy, "Now listen, I want you to give Hawkeye all possible help and advice, especially you, Father. Pierce, I'll give you full access to Margaret's personal files, to make sure you can answer as many of her questions as possible. I don't have to tell you not to share any of this information, or to use it against her, do I?"

Sitting back behind his desk, the Colonel scratched his head. " 'Presence at all time' requires you to stay at her tent. Klinger will get you a cot from the supplies. And one more thing – if Margaret needs any medical attention other than passing her a pill and a glass of water, I want BJ to be responsible."

"Why him?" Hawkeye asked, on guard again after a moment of calming down.

"You cannot take responsibility for everything, or you will snap," Potter said firmly, not wanting to provoke a quarrel. "BJ is as of now employed as Margaret's chief physician, and I don't want to hear any complaints about it. Comprendi?"

Affirmative answers could be heard from all parties. As BJ and Mulcahy left, Potter opened his file cabinet and pulled out Margaret's papers. "I'm trusting this to you, son," he said, again looking exhausted. "Take good care of her."

"I promise, Sir." Hawkeye suddenly felt very serious and formal. And very, very tired.

He went straight for Margaret's tent, snatching a bag with his private stuff from BJ, who had kindly packed it up for him. As he entered the tent he'd left the previous day so hopeful, the amount of all things 'Margaret' cluttered up on the small space made his heart sink. Was it even possible for her to walk in here and not recognize the stupid pictures taken during the spring picnic, a shawl she got from the nurses for her birthday, or countless little objects connecting her to the people – even Frank, for God's sake! That was just… unfair.

Needing something to occupy himself with, Hawkeye pulled a sheet of paper from a neat pile on Margaret's desk, and started copying the personal information page from her file: Margaret Houlihan, born on…, daughter of … and …, other close relatives: …. After he finished and pinned it to the wall over her bed, he proceeded with a chart listing everyone from the 4077th: the names, ranks, some physical description, but never any details on the relationship they had with Margaret.

He was done with the officers and had just begun the enlisted men, when the absurdity of the situation caught up with him, making him drop the pen and bury his face in his hands. What was the use of any of this? What was _he_ supposed to say to her if she asked about her feelings towards Frank, or himself? Should he only mention what was going on in the past couple of months, or would diving deeper into past be a better idea? For now, maybe – but what happens when she regains her composure, not to mention memory, and finds out he'd tricked her into believing something that was not _entirely_ true? Amnesiac or not, she was still the very same Hot Lips Houlihan…

His thoughts brought him to yet another halt. How on Earth would he explain _that_ nickname?!

No, he couldn't do it, not in a million years. There would be questions: about the motives that brought her to committing certain deeds, to deciding which was right for her at the moment. He knew the final outcome, the woman she's become, but he knew nothing of the reasons that brought her to it in the first place.

He has obviously made a mistake. He had to go to Potter and tell him he wasn't going to do this, lacking the objectivity necessary to perform a successful therapy – there was nothing he could do for her, they'd better taken her to Tokyo or wherever, until…

The door opened to reveal Potter and BJ, supporting pale and weary Margaret by her elbows. He took in the bandage wrapped around her head, skin damaged on her chin and hands where she'd fallen, and realized he couldn't possibly walk away now that he's seen her. This wasn't about him, about all negative emotions she might be having for him in the process of regaining her memory – it was about helping her get better, nothing more, nothing less.

He's been entrusted with this task, and his newly put up plan was to fulfill it.

Margaret blinked, trying to adjust her eyes to seeing in the dimly lit tent, and finally, when her eyes rested upon him, he wasn't surprised to find them cold and distant rather than vulnerable and uneasy like one might have expected. He knew her all too well: a catastrophe or not, Major Houlihan was still there.

The recognition of himself, on the other hand, wasn't. He should have been expecting it, but it hurt even so.

"Margaret, Captain Pierce is going to help you to get through the next few days," Potter said, helping her onto her cot. "I will leave the two of you alone for some time, then send BJ back here to examine you."

She nodded curtly, he eyes travelling to BJ's face as if she needed to reassure herself she was associating the name with the right person. The two men left swiftly, closing the door behind them, and leaving a very unsure Hawkeye facing a rather stiff and cold Margaret.

"Can I get you anything to drink?" he asked, aware of the lameness of the question, but still feeling something had to be said.

"No," she snapped, then composed herself a little bit. "Thank you," she added, as if forcing herself, and rearranged the blanket covering the greater part of her body. "Am I to understand you will be staying in my tent?" she asked, pointing at the cot where his unpacked bag rested.

"The Colonel thinks it would be the best for therapy's sake."

"What about yourself?" she questioned, a cold, piercing gaze fixed on his face. "What's in it for you, Captain? What was the nature of our… relationship? Were we friends? Romantically involved? Or do you just hope to take advantage of my temporarily weakness, and _jump me_, or however you would call it?"

He sighed, combing his fingers through his already messy hair. He somehow managed to forget there was also this part of Margaret's character, which has been hidden from him during the last months. Being as introvert as she was, Margaret would rather keep people away by all means than allow them to approach her in any way. Hawkeye knew how much would depend on his answer, and chose his words ever so carefully.

"Well, since you ask so nicely, I'm going to share some of my ideas with you. It is not my intention to 'jump you', Margaret, for even if I'm not a psychiatrist I would never abuse the trust my patient has in me. Whether you actually do trust me, or not, is not the point at the moment.

"You asked what was there in it for me. I will tell you, though I'd rather keep this part for myself in the beginning, but I want to clarify and many things as possible, if we are to cooperate in getting your memory back. We have quite some history, Margaret. After a long period of numerous pranks I've pulled against you since the beginning of our acquaintance, and all too many reprimands you've given me – not all of them unreasonable, I have to admit – we settled in for something that could be described in terms of friendship, though we both knew this wasn't the ultimate direction in which we were heading."

He paused, trying to read her expression, but it was blank, yet still concentrated, her eyes attentive, though she must have been really tired. He decided to lay it all down, plain and simple, and let her rest.

"I do care about you, though I'm far from fully understanding what it means for both of us. Still, I won't be trying to use the fact in any way during your healing process. Our main goal is to help you recover as soon as possible, and I will do my best to achieve it." He breathed deeply; there was still the worst thing to ask. "However, if don't feel comfortable with my being here, and would prefer to work with somebody else, I will remove my things this instant."

She looked away, her eyelashes covering her eyes from him to read them, and gently pulled on the blanket, pinching it lightly as she digested the new information. When she finally looked up, her expression was slightly more relaxed, though Hawkeye could feel the tension closed up behind her features.

"I do not mind your staying here, as long as we keep thing purely professional," she stated uncertainly, her voice slowly getting a hint of exhaustion. Hawkeye exhaled inwardly, hoping she didn't notice the fleeting expression of great relief that crept across his face. Standing in perfect position, he saluted her with a grin.

"I wouldn't dare to violate your privacy, Major," he chuckled, and poured her a glass of water nevertheless. "Do you need anything else, or shall I leave you alone until BJ comes over?"

"I'm fine, thank you," she responded, blinking wearily, apparently tired, but as he nodded and turned to leave, she cleared her throat to get his attention. "However… I would appreciate it if you… I mean, if you have no previous commitments…"

"Margaret," he interrupted gently, turning back to face her and smiling and her discomposure, so obvious despite her desperate efforts to hide it. "Relax, you don't have to walk around in circles, not with me. I know it's hard to believe right now, but _do_ have… had, a connection, and I can take a lot from you. Just shoot me with whatever gear you have there."

She blushed and averted her eyes again, but when she spoke she sounded far more confident than before. "I was wondering whether you could stay here, while I'd be getting some sleep. After everything that happened… I'd rather not be alone."

His heart clenched at the sound of her voice, feeling the desperation and fear she tried to conceal (not knowing he's been there, and seen it, far too many times to be fooled), and nodded. "I'm going to work on this," he waved the personnel list "for a while. You just try to relax, get some sleep. If BJ comes when you're asleep, I'll tell him to come back later."

"Thank you," she said and hesitated. "How do I call you? Normally, I mean."

"That would be 'Hawkeye'," he answered, coming closer and adjusting her pillows, making sure she could lie down comfortably. She frowned, trying to remember the nickname, but gave up after a moment.

"Thank you, Hawkeye," she repeated and closed her eyes. He sat down, trying to concentrate on the list in his hand, but he found himself listening to her breathing, making sure she slept peacefully. BJ came shortly after Margaret fell asleep, but left after taking a quick look at the scene.

It can't be so bad, Hawkeye decided, smiling to himself. Hard, yes, but not hopeless.

Anyway, he was in too deep to withdraw now.

And he did not want to.

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You know, when I was writing the last part of this installment, I had a very clear picture of how the very last chapter of this story should look like, and this is what I'm presently working on (not that it's going to end so soon, no chance for that, I'm afraid ;) Please let me know what you think!


	5. Chapter 5

'S me again.

Thanks for all lovely reviews on Chapter Four: I know most of you didn't see the amnesia thing coming, but I figured that, since I've read many great stories focusing on our favorite characters helping each other out of various _physical_ wounds etc., it would be nice to have them facing a _mental_ problem this time ;)

Anyway, I'm glad you liked it, and I hope you're going to enjoy the next chapter. I'm not fully satisfied with the final outcome, but this is mostly meant as a filler, to give you an idea of how Margaret and Hawkeye were coping with her amnesia during the first few days, before we get on to a slightly more… angsty part.

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She slept off the better part of the next two days.

Whenever she woke up, he was there, reading, writing something in patients' files, dozing off in a chair or on his cot. He always checked her pulse and fever, asked if she needed anything, and waited for her to start asking questions.

She never did.

Yes, there were many things she wanted – needed – to know, but she couldn't force herself to speak to him. She was tired, too tired. Her first and foremost need was to rest, as long as possible. And so she did.

It all ended on the third day, when she woke up to find her tent empty, doors slightly opened, him – Hawkeye – talking to somebody outside. She heard a female voice asking him whether he felt lonely, and smoothly suggesting she might keep him company in the dull hours… He declined the offer, jokingly, but firmly, and yet it hurt her to think that some woman (most probably one of her subordinates) would want him to get away from her… her being whom? Was she hated by the personnel? Was the woman jealous of the attention she's been getting from him? Did she think she didn't deserve him?

Sitting on her cot, knees pulled up, she hid her face on her hands and sobbed, until she felt his hands touching hers, his breath on her neck as he whispered to her, comforting her gently though he did not know the reason for her breakdown. She let herself be lulled back to sleep by his touch and voice.

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When she woke up again, it was already dark outside. Hawkeye was sitting on his cot, staring blankly into space, but his eyes focused as soon as he noticed her move.

"Can I help you with anything?"

She nodded, blushing slightly. "I would very much like to have a shower."

His eyebrows shot up, lips forming into a wicked grin. "Now you're talking."

"I don't want you _in_ with me! I just need your help to get there, I'm not sure if I can do it myself."

"But of course," he smiled, faking a bow, and stood up, holding her robe out for her. "Do you want me to wait outside while you're there? I could always give you a back rub, you know."

She groaned and rolled her eyes. "Are you always like this?"

"Charming and devilishly handsome? Yeah, that's all me."

"Give it a break."

"And that's all you."

They walked to the showers together, his arm placed gently across her shoulders, supporting her in a non-offensive way. People stared at her, some stopped to say hello and state how happy they were to have her back, please get better soon, blah blah blah. She wondered whether she'd recognize the voice she'd heard before, the woman talking to Hawkeye outside the tent, but dropped the idea after a while. It wouldn't do her any good. Probably.

As she stood in the shower, a plastic cap around her bandaged head, and felt the hot water run down her shoulders, chest and back, she really yearned for a back rub. Of course it was out of the question to invite Hawkeye in, and allow him not only to see her like that, but also to touch, probe, massage her back with his skillful hands… Her eyes snapped open. Where on Earth did these thoughts come from? This didn't feel like her usual self – even though she wasn't exactly sure what the 'usual self' would feel like – and as such was highly disturbing. She finished her shower off quickly, dried herself thoroughly and exited the compartment to find Hawkeye standing outside with his back against the wall, holding something that looked like a martini glass in his hand.

Feeling an urge to snap out of her previous mood, Margaret decided to make a comment to repay for his. She sniffed the contents of the glass and winced. "What's this? Liquid rat poison?"

His head shot up, and he eyed her suspiciously. "Did you remember anything?"

She looked at him with wide opened eyes. "No, not a thing. What makes you think I did?"

"This is exactly the way you used to describe the elixir we drink here."

She blinked and frowned, trying to work out the process that brought her to this expression. "I don't know why I said that. I just wanted to make a nasty remark, but I've obviously failed."

"You did make an impression, though. Shall we go back, Miss Margaret, or do you wish to take a walk around the compound?"

"I'd rather go back in," she pleaded, a haunted look on her face. "I don't feel comfortable around people… not yet."

"Understood," he nodded, placing a hand on the small of her back and guiding her towards her tent. She obeyed, allowing herself to be led, her head gratefully empty, tiredness getting a hold of her yet again. She combed her fingers through her hair and groaned.

"I really should do something with it."

"You can't wash it yourself. You'll destroy the bandage."

"Then I'm sentenced to get on with it? For how long?" she asked bitterly, shaking her head.

He opened the door for her. "Would you like me to ask one of the nurses to come over and help you?"

"I don't want to trouble them. Besides… I think they wouldn't be too happy about it."

"What makes you think that?"

Sitting down on her cot, she shrugged and raised her eyes to follow him, busying around with arranging her stuff. "I've been thinking, listening to people talk, and I came to a conclusion that I wasn't exactly… liked by my subordinates, was I?"

He sighed and scratched his head. "You certainly were pretty strict, which could have been a turn-off for some people…"

"Don't play with me," she snapped, covering herself up. "They hated me, right?"

He sat down on her cot, back propped up the wall, his right profile turned to her. "Margaret, please. You want me to generalize a very delicate matter. Yes, some people who worked with you found your incurable down-to-earthness and devotion to the Army quite appalling, but there were also others who couldn't help but notice your professional approach to the job you've been doing, and enjoyed having you on their team." He paused for a second before continuing. "On the other hand, you were not the most outgoing of people, and this enforced a certain distance between you and your co-workers. I guess nobody really knew the real you, not even Frank…"

"Frank?" she interrupted, furrowing her brow. "You mean Major Burns, the one who went with me to the aid station? Why should he know me better than others?"

He didn't answer that, just looked at her pointedly, walking for her to work it out on her own. "Oh," she whispered after a while. "Have I really…?"

"I'm afraid so."

"But…" she blushed, and turned her head away, "I can't imagine what could have made me… date… that man! I felt absolutely no attraction towards him when we were at the aid station!"

This is it, he thought, feeling a cold shiver run down his spine._ Now I should tell her about the whole deal, the Generals, Ferret Face, and other skeletons crowding her inexistent closet—"_

"Am I a person who sleeps with just whoever?"

Hawkeye wasn't sure he heard it right, so quiet and shaky was her voice. He blinked, taking in the form of a woman curled under the blanket, teary eyes gazing out into space. I can't, I couldn't, he thought yet again, but this time it wasn't dictated by his fear of rejection, rather by an obsessive need to keep her safe, happy, content. Deciding to play big, he shifted on the bed and took her hands in his, just like he did before she left for the aid station.

"Margaret, I want you to listen to me, very carefully. Frank Burns may not be own of my favorite war buddies, but he has always been devoted to the army, in some ways quite similar to yourself, and that's why the two of you kept together for a while. Still, you left him when things got rough between you, and you were no longer satisfied with the nature of your relationship. I cannot judge you, Margaret, on this particular choice, or any others you've made before we met. I am supposed to answer your questions, but it is not my job to _fabricate_ the answers." He saw the somehow relieved look in her eyes, and pulled a strand of hair out of her face. "You'll understand more when your memory returns. I can only assure you there were always pretty good reasons for your 'dating' this or that individual."

She averted her gaze yet again. "What if my memory does not return?"

"There's no such option. I checked the small print on our agreement."

She smiled weakly, and squeezed his fingers in attempt to thank him for the consolation he offered. "Ha, ha."

"Well, of course we can try and fix something if you want me to live in your tent forever," he added smiling slyly, to further reverse her mood. Groaning, she pulled her hand from his and closed her eyes.

"Think I've had more than enough of this conversation."

"Geez, you're no fun to play with. Would you like to get some _more_ sleep?"

"I think so." She hesitated, and bit her lip before nodding slightly, as if she'd made an important decision. "Though I do want to go back to my duties as soon as possible. The OR, post-op shifts, everything. I feel pretty well, and I hope Dr Hunnicut won't disapprove.

"Well, as long as you promise not to fall asleep in the middle of a procedure, I can discuss it with him. And do try calling him BJ. You two were actually getting along pretty well; at least he never irritated you like I did."

She nodded, blinking, slowly getting dizzy and sleepy again. He noticed the change in her and pulled the blanket further up, arranging it around her shoulders. She shivered slightly as his warm fingers touched her skin, but pretended it was just a yawn. Giving her a know-it-all grin, Hawkeye stood up from the cot, and sat behind her desk, pulling out a clear sheet of paper in starting to write.

"What's this?"

"A letter to my father," he answered, tapping his pencil against the paper. "I need to fill him in the current events. He says my letters from the front are far better than any soap opera he's seen."

"Are you going to write about me?" she asked, head buried in the pillow, one eye still looking at him suspiciously.

"Of course. The parts about you are his favorites."

She groaned, sitting up again, trying to overcome her sleepiness. "This is all awkward. You're writing to your father, whom I neither know nor remember anything about him, about me, while my character and personal life remains unknown to the very subject of the letter. I feel ridiculous, like a melodrama heroine."

"It'll be over soon. Be patient, Margaret. You haven't even got over the physical shock of the accident, and you're already thinking about overcoming the mental repercussions. Give it some time, step back and take things slowly. Not that your feisty nature could easily adapt to it."

"You think I'm feisty?" she asked, furrowing her brow at the idea. he coudln't help but smile at her expression.

"You certainly have a great appetite for life, as much as you're trying to hide it behind the cold Major façade."

"I'm not sure whether I should thank your for this comment, or punch you."

"I'm a pacifist. I opt for the non-violent solution."

"I'm sure you do."

He chuckled, and looked down at her with tenderness in his eyes, realizing she was getting better, even if she didn't remember anything yet. "Go to sleep, Margaret. I'll talk to BJ tomorrow, and we'll decide on your going back to work."

"I would appreciate that," she said in a perfect Major Houlihan tone, before finally giving up and nestling herself comfortably. "Goodnight, Captain."

"Goodnight, Major."

He went back to his letter, giving his father a concise picture of recent events, but eventually didn't mention a word about Margaret's present condition. This was something he had to deal with on his own.

He looked at her sleeping form and smiled sadly, suddenly feeling extremely lonely. "Come back soon, Major Baby," he whispered, before folding the letter and lying down on his cot, preparing for another night of shallow, troubled sleep.


	6. Chapter 6

The flashbacks began three days later.

She'd ask a nurse about her husband, and remember his first name. Recognize a picture of BJ's daughter placed in a stock with some others, freshly arrived in the mail. Make a casual remark about her mother's upcoming birthday, and her idea of buying her some Chinese silk in her favorite shade. These were simple things, but she could tell most of the people let out a great sigh of relief when she started to 'come to it'.

They were happy for her, and she tried to be grateful.

The truth was, it scared her to death that the only things she could remember were petty, unimportant ones, while nothing of the really _vital_ stuff came back. Was she condemned to remembering names and faces that hardly meant anything to her?

This was bad.

Made her feel lonely, scared, and irritated, more and more every day.

At least she had her work back. Not on the regular basis, not yet, but BJ allowed her to do some hours every day, and Potter wasn't opposing to her staying at the OR from time to time, though she didn't get to assist in a procedure on her own. She was slowly falling back into the rhythm, and it brought back some sanity.

Then, on the fourth day since her first memory flashback, Hawkeye walked into her tent in the morning after a night shift at the post-op, to find her curled on her cot, a photograph of her parents taken off from the wall, crumbled in her hand. She didn't look at him, she didn't even open her eyes, but as soon as he sat down in a chair next to her she started to talk.

"My father always blamed me for not having a son. Mother couldn't have any more children after she had me, a daughter he never wished for. He would never play with me, or tell me about the world in that clumsy way grownups talk to children, or even go for a walk with me if mother wasn't there to make him. I tried so hard to please him, ever since I was old enough to understand."

"Was that why you decided to become regular army?"

She snorted and shook her head. "Army was all I've ever known. I didn't know I could become something else, and my parents never corrected that mistake of mine. What I mean by trying to please him is…" she swallowed hard, and he could swear her lips quivered with suppressed crying, "…constant awareness. Desperate attempts to be the best. To have top grades in my class. To get promoted as soon as possible."

She paused and looked him in the eye, this time not trying to hide the tears. Or the fury.

"And then one thing led to another, and _this_ in turn led to that bloody nickname of mine, as you have probably guessed long ago, _Captain_. Should I be grateful for your keeping it to yourself? Or rather – to yourself and the rest of the camp, who were probably laughing their heads off for the last couple of days, waiting for me to come to it?! Did they make any bets on when I'd remember being _Hot Lips_?!"

"Margaret, please," he spoke up, feeling his own emotions getting out of control, surprised and hurt by the bitterness of her voice. "Would you really prefer it if I told you that on the very first day? Or maybe drop in a casual comment when we were discussing Frank?"

She jumped up to her feet, an effect slightly spoilt by temporary difficulties with keeping her balance, an aftermark of her head injury. "How dare you!"

"How dare I what? Did you really think that was a simple thing to decide? I spent hours thinking about it! For Christ's sake, Margaret, the very idea of telling you and causing you pain tore me up inside!" He stood up, too, with flushed cheeks and rage flaring in his eyes, matching hers. "But maybe that's what I should have done, huh? To save you the ecstasy of finding out by yourself, out of the blue?" He paused, suddenly feeling tired, lousy, and pathetic. "This wasn't an easy choice, Margaret. Not an easy choice at all. But I made it, and I will take responsibility for it. You choose to hate me, fine. You decide to listen to me one day and accept my arguments, fine again. Now _you_ make up your mind."

It took him three steps to be out of her tent. Many more to leave the compound, but finally he reached his favorite spot by the river, well hidden from view of any passersby. He found himself still shaking from shock, lack of sleep, cold and anger, and tried his best to calm his nerves. After all, he knew she'd get furious at him when she remembered, and was exactly what happened. He only hoped he'd be better prepared when the time came.

Sighing, he hid his face in his hands. Maybe it _was_ too much, and he didn't mean the so-called therapy this time. He didn't expect himself to react so potently to staying so close to her, being surrounded by her smell at every hour of night and day, waking up in her tent and hearing her breathe – so close to him, but still hopelessly out of reach. He cared for her – slowly coming to terms with a word 'love' to describe the feelings he had for her – and hoped he'd be strong enough the take this pressure, but obviously he failed.

And now, it was all done. She was inches away from fully regaining her memory, but since he had made the mistake of hiding some important things from her, she was also _miles_ away from _him_ for this matter. There wasn't much left to do for him. He would move his things back to the swamp in the evening, when she was at the post-op, and forget about it. Forget about her, if it was possible. Hell, he could even try to have his way with some of the new nurses, one who came over shortly after he and Margaret started to do-whatever-it-was-they-were-doing-for-it-definitely-wasn't-dating! The world stood open before him again.

At yet, he has never felt this miserable in his life.

"Something troubling you, son?" he heard a voice over his head at looked up, to see Father Mulcahy sitting on a branch directly above him.

"Geez, Father, you really sound like a Voice in Heavens," he tried to joke, and more importantly – to regain composure. Of course, his cheap tricks didn't fool the priest.

"I was hoping I wouldn't have to save you from the river, I am not a good swimmer," Mulcahy continued, watching Hawkeye carefully with his gentle eyes. "You look like you really could use a friend to talk to."

"Or a Voice from Above?"

"If that's what you wish for, then yes, why not?"

Hawkeye leaned against the tree and looked in Mulcahy's general direction, the sunbeams getting through the leaves dazzling him. "I was wondering whether my attempts to do good for Major Houlihan there haven't brought her more pain than it's worth. Do you ever get that kind of feeling, Father?"

The bespectacled man smiled. "Interfering with another people's fate is always a matter of great delicacy, as we cannot know for sure what our actions would be taken for, or what the other person is thinking in the deepest of their soul. We could be doing them what we consider a great favor, but in fact our deeds may vastly harm them in the process. Especially if we have to face a situation as complicated as a memory loss. I do not know what happened, Hawkeye, but I've been watching the two of you during these past days, and if you allow me to express my opinion, I'd say you've done a great job. And if Major Houlihan thinks otherwise… it is her right to do so, and you should try to respect that. Give her some time, and space, to think it over. Maybe she'll realize you were only trying to help, whatever it was you have done."

"And what if she doesn't?" Hawkeye ask bitterly, cursing himself or revealing this much without even saying anything. Mulcahy shut the book he'd been reading, and carefully climbed down to stand next to the young surgeon.

"Send her to me, and I'll try to fight with her doubts and fears with my dazzling intelligence and personal charm."

Hawkeye burst out laughing. "You know what, Father, that sounded so… me."

"I was hoping it would. Come on, let's get back to get camp. You should get some sleep, son – don't get me wrong, but you look quite awful."

"Thanks, Father. Not for this last sentence, perhaps, but for everything you've told me today. I'll try to leave Margaret alone for a while. Maybe she'll understand."

"I do hope so."

The two men walked slowly towards the compound, where they parted, Mulcahy heading for the mess tent, Hawkeye – first time in more than a week – for the Swamp. As he took in the interior, which he himself paid a great deal to cluster up, he was suddenly overwhelmed with longing for the warmth, orderliness and familiarity of Margaret's quarters. It took almost all of his self-control not to run for her tent and beg for her forgiveness.

"This is bullshit," he mumbled to himself, and, swallowing a glass a martini in two swigs, collapsed heavily on his cot, giving himself away to heavy, uneasy sleep.

0o0o0o0o0o0o

**A/N:** So, what do you think should happen? Will Margaret forgive him?...


	7. Chapter 7

**A/N:** You know why I love my new job? Because it allows me to sit in front of my computer and write, even if the day is quite busy. And I still do get to use the stuff I've learnt at the university. Go job!

There's a slight drop-in in this chapter, for my dear friend, Mon Alice, who's currently suffering from a bad case of… well, you'll figure this one out :)

There is a possibility that the next chapter after this would be the last. Unless you want more, that is. Read, try to imagine what'll come next (it's almost done, by the way, I was kind of writing it simultaneously with this one), and tell me – should I continue, or would you prefer me to close it, and move on to something else?

Thank you for reading, and staying with me through my notes ;)

0o0o0o0o0o0o0o0o

The great escape, also known as sneaking Hawkeye's stuff out of Margaret's tent, has been successfully executed at nineteen-hundred hours the same evening, with indispensable help from Radar and Klinger. Having made sure everything in the Major's quarters was exactly as it had been before he moved in, Hawkeye closed the door and let out a quiet sigh, before proceeding to perfecting the contents of the still.

Working on the booze has always had a profoundly calming effect on him, he concluded.

That was how BJ found him, coming back from the post-op later that evening. He sniffed, trying to estimating the amount of alcoholic steam in the air, but gave up after a moment, taking a long, concerned look at his bunkmate's face.

"So. I've seen storm clouds more cheerful than Hot Lips has been in the post-op tonight, and since I find you here, my dear buddy, I get it that she finally kicked you out?"

"I resent that! I left before she had the chance."

"What have you done?"

"Me? Why do you suppose it was _my_ fault?"

"Wasn't it?"

He sighed, and raised his hands up, defeated. "Guess it was. I kind of… skipped the whole 'Hot Lips' deal when I was briefing her up on her life."

"Oh. And now, as I understand, she's remembered, and blames you for _not_ briefing her?"

"You can say that again."

BJ sat down on his cot and helped himself with a glass of martini. "Tell me, my friend: do _you_ blame yourself?"

Hawkeye shrugged, lying back on the cot. "The point is… I don't. I gave this whole thing a thought, BJ, but obviously I was wrong. Trust me, causing Margaret more pain was not my goal."

"I can believe that. But since you've clearly hurt her, what do you plan on doing now?"

"Have no idea."

"Man, that's pretty neat."

"What do you expect me to do? Shall I cover my head with ash, dress in some rags from the bottom of Frank's wardrobe and weep at her doorstep until she forgives me? Or should I rather give her some time to figure everything out on her own? Be careful with your answer, the latter's actually our Reverend's enlightened advice."

"And it is a very good one, too. Hawk, I won't give you a universal recipe for solving this, because there isn't one. I have no idea what I'd done if I was facing a similar choice, but as much as the strangeness of the expression strikes me, I do believe your intentions were noble…"

"Why, thank you!"

"Will you let me finish? Noble as they might have been, making your decisions you didn't take certain zoological aspects into consideration." Despite the flickers of laughter twinkling in his eyes, BJ's voice remained solemn and serious. "Margaret is rather oystery when it comes to personal relations, which I do not need to remind you of. What I would like to remind you of, however, is her pride. She must have felt betrayed, and worse: _bared_ by you, when she finally remembered that particular part of her personality. How would you like to be an oyster deprived of its shell, huh?"

"I'm claustrophobic."

"Think abstract."

"Okay, okay, I get your point. I screwed it up, never giving her a chance to control the amount of knowledge I had on her. Maybe if I'd mentioned something earlier, some unimportant detail, and showed her I didn't really care about it, she would have thought I know nothing, or hardly anything, about those particular episodes from her past. Now she must be thinking I've read the entire file on her, names, dates and so on—" he paused, his face suddenly very pale.

"What's going on, Hawk?" BJ asked with concern, putting a hand on his shoulder. Hawkeye, however, shook it off and jumped to his feet.

"Her file! I left it in her tent! Not that I've ever read it cover to cover, mind you, but if she finds it, she'll hate me even more! Damn, how can a grownup man be so stupid?!"

"I believe the evolution wasn't hundred percent effective."

"Ha-ha, very funny indeed." Messing up his hair, the Chief Surgeon paced the length of the tent back and forth. "I'm going in," he announced after a while, "for a mission of saving the innocent file from the hands of a pitiless enemy."

"Be careful, don't get yourself killed."

"Your sense of humor seems to be in top-form today."

"What can I say? You provide priceless entertainment."

"Oh, shut up."

With this he left, feeling his knees going weaker and weaker with every step he took. Get a grip, Benjamin, he scolded himself, this is Margaret you're about to face, not some flame-breathing dragon! What could she do to you?

_Leave me._

_She could leave me._

He'd rather face the dragon. A full-grown, fire-breathing, nasty beast. Unfortunately, South Korea seemed to be experiencing a dramatic shortage in the field of dragons, backing it up with feisty blonde Majors.

Gathering whatever has been left of his courage and strength of character, he knocked on Margaret's door, seeing the light inside. There was no answer, so he tried again after a moment. When three successive attempts brought no reaction whatsoever, he pressed the doorknob reluctantly, and felt the door give way.

Margaret was lying on her cot, facing away from the door, her shoulders shaking as she wept. One quick glance around provided him the answer for that – her personal file, which he was about to salvage, was lying on the floor, loose sheets of paper scattered around, a couple of black-and-white photographs he haven't even seen before among them. He came closer to the cot, and picked a random print.

Margaret, wearing a dress uniform, was standing next to some old General, his arm protectively wrapped around her waist, a grin plastered onto her face. He flipped through a couple more: the same drill, and older man, Margaret on his arm, the very same expression of pretended joyfulness stretching her features.

"Oh, God," he murmured, picking the lot off the floor and rearranging it haphazardly into the file. Having done that, he sat down on her cot, and, overcoming a fear of getting bitten, hit or punched, reached out to touch her shoulder. She winced, and looked up at him, her red, swollen eyes full of grief and pain, tears running down her face. For this one moment, she was the most fragile, vulnerable thing in the world, and his first and foremost instinct was to protect her by all means.

He swept her into his arms, burying her head in his chest, and whispered words of comfort until her sobbing ceased. She clung to him with all her strength, fingers entwined with his hair, tears staining his shirt. Gently massaging her back, and never breaking their contact, Hawkeye managed to change their position and prop himself against the wall, so that now Margaret could lie almost entirely upon him, taking in the warmth of his body, savoring the sense of safety and acceptance emanating from the dark haired man.

"How can you do this?" she whispered after a few long minutes, her face still hidden in her chest. "How come you're not disgusted with me? How come you still like me?"

As much as he hoped to be prepared for whatever outcome, he didn't see that coming. He moved one of his hands, resting on her back up till now, and caressed her scalp. "How can I not like you? Believe me, Major, I've tried. It's hopeless."

"But… you know who I am… I was… Doesn't this scare you? Don't you want to run for it, the farther the better?"

"Margaret, the only way for you to get rid of me would be to break both of my legs and disappear without any notice… but this would only work until my legs were healed, so no, unfortunately you're convicted to my presence by your side." Suddenly he stopped the slight, calming movement of his hand, and she looked up at him, shaken, and surprised, to find his face cold and grave. "Unless you really neither need nor want me here. In that case, well, I'd be gone momentarily, and never bother you with my sight again."

"I was wondering how you managed to get pass all this," she whispered, avoiding his gaze, and gestured towards the file. "Why do you stick around, even if you know what kind of a person I am? You're a good man, insufferable, but good; why don't you just head off with some girl who's more worthy than…"

"Cut it out," he interrupted angrily and sat up straight, holding her by her shoulders. "If I ever had any doubts about you having hit your head, there's none of it left now. I realize now I should have prepared you somehow for all this, but I couldn't bring myself to add to your load of misery. For that I'm sorry. But Margaret, you must understand – while for you these revelations are fresh and vivid, causing you pain I can't even imagine, for me – for all of us at the hospital – this is all past, long gone, with whatever winds blowing around here since last year. You've changed, Margaret, we have all seen it happen. You are a different person now, though you may not be realizing it just yet. And if there's anything left in you of that woman you see in those pictures, then you're hiding it perfectly."

She looked at him intensely, one hand on his back, the other pressed flat to his chest, eyes boring into his face. "You really think so?" she asked in a small, shaky voice.

"I _know_ so."

"Thank you." She moved to lay her head back down on his chest, but stopped in half-motion. When she looked at him again, her eyes were full of suspicion. "This still doesn't explain why you're here right now… Or why you were taking care of me all this time."

He looked at her, taking in the way light danced in her hair and caught in her eyes, moist from the tears she'd shed, the soft lines of her face and neck, enjoying the warmth emanating from her body in places it touched his, inhaling the aroma of her perfume and everything that was her, trying to remember as much as he could, before she'd throw him away of her tent. And he knew she'd do it, after she heard what he had to say.

"Because I care about you, Margaret Houlihan, more than I've ever cared about any woman in my life. Satisfied now, or would you like me to write you a sonnet? A _canzona_? Not sure I could provide a full-scale Shakespearian tragedy, but I could try to—"

Whatever Hawkeye could, or would, try to do, has remained unknown, for one Margaret Houlihan reached up, and captured his lips with hers.

He embraced her again, responding, feeling her urge to let go, to lose herself in the moment: but as much as he wanted this to happen, he needed to sort some things out first. He broke the kiss gently, nipping on her lips before letting her go finally, on of his hands still holding her close, fingers of the other caressing the outline of her face. "I didn't even hope for that kind of an answer. Thank you."

She smiled shyly and blushed, averting her eyes, but he made her look back at him. "Would you do that again if I told you that for me there's no going back? You still haven't fully come to your senses, Margaret. Would you prefer to wait, before you throw yourself into something the _real_ you may not want?" He couldn't help himself from adding, "Please do realize now's your one and only chance to escape. I can be more haunting than a bad case of chicken pox, you won't be able to ever scratch me off."

She smiled again, and caressed his cheek, reminding him of the evening at the post-op. God he wanted to kiss her that night; not only kiss her: he wanted to do things with and to her that would give fatal strokes to most of the patients.

He could say the feeling was coming back at him.

"I guess I might be just a little bit crazy saying this," he heard her speak slowly, "but if the 'real me', as you call her, chooses to oppose my present decision, I will find a way to shut her up."

He looked down at her, seeking reassurance in her features, but his vision changed rapidly as she shifted against him, straddling his thighs. "You strike me as a slightly disturbed person, too, Doctor Pierce. Was that why we were, as you put it not so long ago, heading for something more than friendship?"

"Nah, I believe you've simply fallen for my display of pure masculine power."

"Jerk." She pecked him on the lips and leaning in, brushing against him in a playful, yet dangerous way. "Do you ever get serious?"

"Oh, I do. I believe you'd like a display?"

She only smiled, but he knew there was an invitation hidden behind that smile. Leaning in, he kissed her ever-so gently, waiting for her response. It came, in the form of her tongue slipping past his, dueling for domination for a while, before they found the matching rhythm, and fell into it, giving way to emotions they've both been trying to hide for so long.

"Trust me," he whispered, lying her down and covering every part of her body with kisses.

"I do trust you," she answered, taking the initiative, kissing back, taking him to places he never knew have existed. He came back, and was gone again, taking her with him, never letting go.

There were no four-letter words. There hardly were any words at all. Or maybe they've simply created their own language, which worked much, much better.

There were many things both of them needed, and wanted, to learn. Pleasure points. The magical touch, bringing out the deepest hidden emotions. They understood the importance of it, and were ready to dive into it, headlong, supposing they wouldn't be coming up for air for quite a while.

This was all true. But not tonight.

Tonight was for coming back home. For finding the way, and guiding themselves to a save harbor, where they could both sleep peacefully, for the first time in a long while.

0o0o0o0o0o0o0

**A/N:** This is it! ...and now, please note that I've spilled some coffee on my laptop when I was writing this last scene. Darn. Drying my baby out took two hours. Thank God she's better now!


	8. Chapter 8

He woke up, a little lightheaded, with the first light of morning, to find her already awake, her fingers tracing small circles on his naked chest. He smiled, and kissed the top of her head, hoping he wasn't ruining anything with this gesture.

"Do you remember our first kiss? The one you gave me for Christmas?"

He stirred, pulling her closer to him, all the tension he'd been feeling magically lifted from him. "_You_ remember, or am I mistaken?"

She chuckled, tightening her embrace around his middle section, fingers moving up to caress his jaw. "It all came back to me when I woke up. I was lying here, listening to you breathe, and then I remembered – my underwear being pulled up on a flagpole, you kissing me, us in the aid station… The night when the children arrived for the second time. The Officers' Club. How we said goodbye before I left. Others, too, but first and foremost – you."

He smiled, hoping she could feel it, as she still wouldn't look up at him. "What about that kiss, Margaret?"

She giggled and kissed his chest, before supporting herself on one elbow and finally looking him in the eye. "It was perfect. Best I ever had… until that point in time."

"Am I to understand there were some that surpassed it?!" he exclaimed, his mouth twitching, hands travelling up and down her bare arms. She chuckled and patted his nose.

"Well, I can't deny there's this man in my life, an excellent kisser…" she paused, gazing off dreamily into space, but abandoned the look as he tickled her sides, both of them soon engaging into a 'fight' that ended up with him pinning her down to the mattress, fingers entwined, kissing her ever so gently.

"I do hope I can live up to the image," he whispered against her mouth, and was rewarded with another kiss, slightly less playful, definitely more… intense.

"You can try," she whispered back, something in her rich, husky voice telling him he's been doing just the right thing.

0o0o0o0o

An hour or so later Margaret walked into the mess tent, hoping desperately that nothing in her outside appearance gave out the idea of 'activities' she'd been engaged in until earlier that morning. Some heads turned towards her, some people nodded or smiled to acknowledge her presence – they still treated her like somebody who needed care and attention, a sick person – and she wasn't sure how their attitude would change if they knew…

"Move on, Major, we don't have all day," Hawkeye said playfully standing behind her in the queue, two cups of coffee in his hands. "Care to take some more powdered whatevers for me? I'm having some logistic difficulties here."

"I'll see what I can do, Doctor," she said in an official tone, giving him a lopsided smile as she moved to collect her – their – food. She could smell him in the air around herself, his aroma mingled with hers, and this single sensation made her go just a little bit crazy.

They sat down at an empty table in the faraway corner, facing each other, leisurely stabbing lumps of food with their forks. For a second Margaret thought she could start humming out of pure happiness, but she managed to suppress the feeling. What would people think if Major Houlihan burst into a cheerful tune all of a sudden?

Unthinkable!

"Penny for your thoughts?" asked Hawkeye, nudging her thigh with his knee. She blushed slightly and shook her head.

"I was just reprimanding myself. It's inappropriate to be this happy."

"Are you? Happy, I mean?"

She looked him in the eye, and responded with a smile to his. "I guess I am. I'm not sure why, exactly, but I am."

"Is it possible that this unusual emotional state has something to do with my humble self?"

"Don't flatter yourself, Pierce," she answered curtly, but a tinkling in her eye told him the truth. Grinning, he pressed his leg closer to hers.

"You know I can always say you're lying, don't you?"

"Oh, give me a break!"

"Never!"

"Fighting again?" asked BJ, approaching them with a tray in his hands. He looked at their shared breakfast and frowned. "Did they cut the food ratios down, or are you testing some new vitamin compound?"

"Nah, I'm just depriving Miss Margaret of whatever I can," Hawkeye replied with a grin. Margaret punched him on the ribs, making a face at him. "Ouch."

"You deserved that."

" 'Misunderstood' is my middle name."

"Funny, I always thought it was something else," said BJ, sitting next to Margaret and taking a long swig from his mug. "Will you join us for a game of poker tonight?"

"I'll give the idea a thought." Margaret wasn't sure what Hawkeye's approach to their relationship would be, and how would he act in front of other people, so she left the decision up to him. A flicker in his eyes told her he understood her intentions.

"Come on, Major, it'll be fun. I could deprive you of something more – can't say it would be my first choice, but the financial assets are always welcome."

"And why is that? You never struck me as an investor, Pierce."

"I'm still gathering my dowry."

She rolled her eyes, trying to hide a smile from BJ. "Fine, I'll come around, but don't expect me to give up on my money without a fight."

"Man I love hot-blooded women," Hawkeye murmured to BJ, and bit his lip as he felt Margaret move her leg against his under the table. He shot her a quick glance only to see her seemingly concentrated on her breakfast, bangs covering her eyes, a quizzical smile upon her lips. He shook his head, quite happy about her attitude, and pushed back against her.

"By the way, where have you been all night?" BJ inquired, provoking a fake cough from Hawkeye, who was concentrating mostly on Margaret's attempts to destroy his concentration.

"Me? Well… uh. I tried saving that file we talked about in the evening, had a talk with Major here, and then, don't know… explored some unknown territories? Can't remember, really," he winced as she kicked his shin. Not so playfully.

BJ's expression showed clearly he understood nothing of it.

"Did you forgive him, Margaret? I'm asking just in case there's some major quarrel in the Swamp; I wouldn't like to call upon the MPs to part the two of you," BJ continued in a casual tone, but both questioned parties could see he was really concerned. The blonde Major smiled, in turn gently sliding her calf against Hawkeye's.

"You could say a temporary truce has been signed," she stated coldly, her words in complete opposition to her underside actions. Hawkeye almost choked at his coffee.

"And forget the MPs," he added, trying to stop himself from grinning madly.

"Roger that," BJ agreed calmly, having an unspecified feeling of something being _wrong_ with the two of them. Oh well, he said to himself with his usual optimism, as long as they're not jumping all over each other, everything is just fine.

The good thing was he didn't mention the 'jumping' thing aloud – he would probably end up in the OR, with two suffocated patients.

0o0o0o0o

"This is going to become more and more difficult, you know," he whispered into her ear, tossing an unimportant piece of clothing aside. She moaned and held his head in place, savoring the sensation his kisses provided to her neck and shoulders.

"We'll think of something," she whispered back between heavy breaths. He smiled and moved lower, his actions seemingly slow and languid, but deliberate and well-measured all the same.

"You think there's a way I could keep my hands away from you, now that I've had the glimpse of it?" he murmured, loving the smell and taste of her.

"It's all about keeping up appearances," she explained, and, with one final sigh, gently pushed him away. "As in: not coming late to a poker game arranged by your friend." She looked at him and laughed at the poor-lost-doggy face he pulled. "Come on now, I'll make it up to you later."

He grinned, pulling her in for another kiss. "Promise?"

"Yeah. But I won't specify when the 'later' is going to be."

"Sadist."

"Pervert."

"Oh, but you love my perversions… what does that make you?"

"A highly troubled individual, undoubtedly."

He caught her by the waist, sitting behind her, and kissed the side of her neck before asking:

"Do I understand correctly that you want to keep it secret?"

She shrugged, leaning against him. "I don't know. Do you?"

'Definitely not. I want people to be jealous."

"Humbug."

"Calling me names again, Miss Margaret?"

"I simply can't see why _people_ should be jealous about your—"

"Dating the sexiest woman in Korea?"

"This is your personal opinion, Pierce."

"And I think very highly of it. Are we back on last name basis?"

"Only if you keep on irritating me."

"Then I guess we are."

"Insufferable."

"I think I've heard you mention that one before."

"Wonder why."

She stood up and opened her wardrobe, pretending to give careful consideration to her clothing for the evening to come. She felt his eyes caressing her shirt-deprived body, and realized she wasn't ashamed of him. This was probably the most comfortable she's ever felt in front of a man, any man, including her father, Frank, or any other male she'd been… intimate with.

She sighed. Even though he said he didn't care, _she_ couldn't shake it off herself.

"What's the matter?" she heard his husky voice next to her ear, and a pair of muscular arms embraced her from behind, goose bumps raising on her skin wherever he touched her. She shivered with pleasure, and turned to embrace him back.

"Same old stuff."

"Stilling thinking about that thing?"

"Can't bring myself to stop. Sorry."

"Why do you apologize to me? I'm only worried about you. You should stop punishing yourself for all those things. That was then, this," he kissed her firmly to prove his point, "is now. I am not going to use you, or dump you, so better get used to it, Major Baby."

"I'll do my best. Just don't let me forget."

"I won't," he murmured, concentrating his attention on her collarbones. She sighed, and tried to push him away. "We have to go."

"Not now, not yet," he protested, but stopped anyway, not wanting to push it. "So, is this where you tell me you'd rather keep the whole thing secret for a while?"

"No."

"No?"

"No."

"So?"

"What's with the two-letter words?"

"You tell me."

"I think we should find a way of informing everybody." She smiled mischievously. "After keeping them puzzled for a while."

"Am I hearing what I think I'm hearing? You want to pull a prank, Margaret? My, my, I should leave right now: my presence is starting to have a bad effect on you!"

"Don't you dare," she murmured, grateful for the wardrobe providing a supporting point, as her knees decided to get weak once more. Hawkeye swept her into his arms, and kissed her again.

"Do you mind my saying I'd rather skip the poker tonight?"

"We promised BJ we'd be there. Besides, it won't kill you to wait for a while."

"Maybe. But I won't be able to take my eyes out of you, which may result in, a, losing an awful lot of money, and b, letting the news of our 'truce' slip before we find a nice way to put it."

"What if I promise to be nicer to you in the evening, if you act properly?"

"Done." Kissing her one last time, Hawkeye grabbed a pale blue shirt from her wardrobe. "Would you mind wearing this one tonight? It fits you _really_ well."

"Is this the way to keep your hormones in check?"

"Dunno. It's worth trying, though."

"So be it."

0o0o0o0o

"I hate this game," BJ moaned, having lost another twenty dollars to Margaret, who simply gave him a sympathetic smile. "Why did you ever make me play it?"

"_We_ made you?" Hawkeye shook his head in mocked horror. "Major, I think we should leave the place this instant."

"Stay right where you are, Pierce," she commanded, a small smile lingering on her lips. "I'm not done with you."

They were the only ones still in the game, she having won a great deal of money in the course of the evening, him having lost almost all the cash he had on himself. It was time for putting on a 'great plan' they came up with before finally leaving for the Swamp: a way of informing all present personnel of their relationship.

"Come on, pull up," she said, adding another twenty-dollar bill to the stock on the table. He shook his head, and crossed his arms on his chest. "I'm flat broke. Unless…"

"Unless what?"

"Would you accept jewelry instead of cash?"

Both of them could literally feel the air in the Swamp grow dense. Colonel Potter closed one of Frank's books he's been reading for a while, Father Mulcahy looked up from the Bible, and Radar and Klinger paused in their process of helping themselves with gin from the still.

BJ, not having left the table yet, remained in his chair. "This is going to get interesting," he informed his remaining colleagues, who hastily joined them circle around Margaret and Hawkeye. The pair exchanged knowing glances, but kept their outside appearances deadly serious.

"What do you have in mind?" Margaret asked, tapping her cards gently against the table. Hawkeye reached to his dog-tags, fumbled with them a little, and produced a ring, small band of white gold, with a single stone – aquamarine – in the middle.

"My mother's. What do you say?"

"Would you really gamble something like _that_?" she asked with disbelief, her heart picking up the beat when she realized he wasn't exactly following the scheme they'd previously agreed on.

"Something's telling me I won't lose. Either way." he answered, looking her in the eye, the double-meaning of his words scaring her, inflaming, seducing and captivating at the same time.

"Show me what you got," she urged, desperately trying to control her heartbeat, reaching the average of a sprinter.

He smiled, his eyes never leaving hers, and threw his cards on the table. "Pair on tens."

She uncovered hers. "Pair of kings."

He put his hands up, faking a bow. "It's all yours, Miss Margaret. Will you allow me…?"

He reached out for her hand, pausing directly in front of her, without a hint of suggestion _which one_ she should give him. She inhaled deeply, some part of her mind aware that everybody in the tent, including Hawkeye, has been holding their breaths.

"What do you expect me to do?" she asked him pleadingly, her voice shaky, revealing far more than she would have liked. He pulled a 'Don't ask me' face.

"I hope you know by now what my intentions are. I made up my mind, I found the answer to my question." She knew he meant the 'I still need to figure this out' one he'd mentioned in front of her tent, it seems oh so long ago. "Still, I will not push you on to anything. You decide. Do you trust me, Margaret?"

Heartbeat far beyond sprinter's average. "I think so."

"Yes, or no?"

"I don't even know what it is you're feeling!" She should probably think it embarrassing to shout such things in presence of third parties, but she couldn't care less at the moment. His eyes were locked with hers, his hand still reached out, waiting for her response.

"As much as I don't want to admit it, I'm not good with words, Margaret. Not the important ones. I prefer my actions to speak for me." He smiled mischievously and winked. "But I can assure you, you're going to like the word I have in mind. Just let me say it to you when we're alone. Right now I'm asking you: do you _trust_ me?"

That was it. The most important question, the one she could never answer truly, not even to herself. She broke their eye contact and looked at the faces of people gathered in the tent: her dear friends, who she now recognized and remembered, all focused on this moment when she was supposed to decide, once and for all, whether to lay her life in hands of one Benjamin F. Pierce, or not.

These are pretty skillful hands, she thought, remembering how they would work in the operating room, or under the darkness of her tent. She looked back at him, and saw that his eyes were full of the emotions yet unspoken, but crystal-clear: to her, at least.

_He wouldn't let me fall._

"I do," she said, giving him her hand. Left, not right.

Several gasps could be heard, but they knew nothing about it. Hawkeye slipped the ring on Margaret's finger and curled his hand around hers for a brief moment, before pulling her up to her feet and starting to make his way towards the door.

"Now hold on a second!" she protested, tugging on his sleeve. "Won't you at least wait to hear what they have to say?" she gestured pointedly to their friends, gaping at them, too shocked to utter a word. Hawkeye shrugged and pulled her to himself, possessively, tapping her nose with a finger.

"They're far too long gone, baby. We'll be back tomorrow, maybe they'd come to their senses. Goodnight, gentlemen."

Having said that, he literally dragged her out, her feet hardly touching the ground. She knew she should be mad at him, but all she could manage was to giggle helplessly, clutching his shirt. "Did you see their faces? Oh God, we'll never hear the end of it! The Colonel's going to complain for at least a week, and BJ! Oh, BJ—"

"I love you."

She stopped in her track, just a few steps away from her tent. "Excuse me?"

"There. I've said it. For the first time in my life, can you imagine that? Think I'm really getting old…"

She closed the distance between them, and kissed him firmly, fingers combing through his hair, never wanting to let go. They had to come up for air, eventually, and it gave them a very good excuse to cover, in turn, the distance between them and her tent. Once they got inside, she turned towards him and took his face in her hands.

"It meant a lot to me. I know you're not the kind of guy showering a girl with those types of words. Thank you."

"You're very welcome. Keep on the sweet-talk, and you might convince me to change my views on verbal showerings. As it is, I'm thinking of drowning you in kisses right now. Would it be acceptable?"

"It depends on the quality of those kisses," she teased, his touch already starting to affect her.

"Do not hesitate to bring out any discrepancies," he whispered, before they both silently agreed words were highly overrated.

Anyway, there'll be many more occasions to use them. _Afterwards._

**The End**

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**A/N:** That's it! Thank you for staying with me till the end, thanks for all the wonderful reviews which made me laugh and helped me believe I could actually write this story, from the beginning till the end. Abyssinia!

Lena

(So, what do you guys think of a sequel…? :P)


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